Coffee, Black

“So, did you talk to Frank,” I asked him.

“I went over to see him,” he replied, “But he was not there. His wife told me he was at the doctor’s. I stayed over for coffee.”

The street was loud. They were smoking outside the shop on their break.

“Oh yeah?” I said absent-mindedly.

“Yeah. She had one of those European cans. Instant. But the good kind. I take it black, no sugar, no cream.”

“I know what black means.”

“It was exquisite,” he said. No smile, all serious, but his eyes were happy.

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